What we are, together
by spiritussalis
Summary: Letting go of someone is hard. Letting someone in is even harder. Their relationship isn't easily defined. Not by themselves. Not by anyone. Loosely based on a dialogue prompt. "Do you love me at all?" Human AU, DenNor. Warning: Alcoholism.
1. What we can be

Drunks can be divided into two categories.

Happy drunks, and sad drunks. Magnus was a mixture of the two, Sindre had learned quickly. In one moment, he could be on top of the world, laughing and joking, and weeping profusely in the next. Filled with joyous notions that could always be provided by a drink, only for them to be ripped out again when the world comes crashing back through the haze. In love with the world, then convinced that everyone in it hates him.

It is nighttime. They are sitting on the dock together, their legs dangling off the edge, not far above the glassy water. Loud jeers and drunken singing that was serenaded towards his window had dragged Sindre out of his sleepless bed, from the monotony of being unable to sleep with all the thoughts that refused to leave him be, and out into the night to this man who refused to quiet down unless he talked to him, just for a minute, _please._

Sindre had led him to the end of the dock, a place where he escapes to when he needs the kind of silence that isn't silent, an enigma that only nature and isolation could provide. The gentle sounds of the land, of wind that glides across the water, sings freely through the surrounding forest, where no one is around to disturb it. The view is one of the reasons why he moved here; In the daytime, it is breathtaking in its beauty; from heavy mountains that dip right to the edge of the lake. In the night, darkness shrouds everything, any lights standing out like beacons in the dark.

It is both difficult yet necessary to distance himself as Magnus's eyes brim with unshed tears, even when his laughter had just filled the air. Sometimes, he knows that it is the alcohol talking, swinging him from one emotion to the next with no concern for rationality. Other times, he feels like he has glimpsed what he really must feel, behind the smile that is worn like a shield.

It's why he doesn't always bother himself with the late night texts, ignored phone calls, even the flowers that Magnus would send if he was in enough of a mood. What was the point in spilling his heart out to someone who won't even remember a word of it in the morning? Telling him sweet lies that he would try to hold him to? But it is impossible to ignore a loud drunk at three in the morning. He would like to think that he came out here so that the neighbors would not complain about the noise, although the nearest one is across the lake, unlikely to hear anything. But he knows himself better than that.

"Do you love me at all?"

This was the Magnus who would remember. It was clear in the way his eyes shone too clearly in the moonlight, and he couldn't tell rather it was from tears or intoxication. The grim set of his mouth, drunken slur banished from his words.

Sindre takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep his tone under control.

 _Don't give in._

"Don't ask me that. We have a lot of shared history," The truth, if he dared to voice it, would be; I love you but you don't know how to hold it. I don't know how to. "But that doesn't mean you can show up, unexpected, in the middle of the night. Acting like this isn't okay."

"C'mon, Sindre. Stop with the cryptic word games. You can tell me if you like me. I'm good at keeping secrets." He holds up a finger to his lips and breaks out in a goofy grin. The happy drunk is back in control. Because his words stung.

He shakes his head. "That is not going to work, Magnus. We had this conversation the last time you did this. Remember?"

"Nope. Can't remember a word of it. Anything else we had?" He suggests with raised eyebrows.

"Impossible," He groans in exasperation. "You are just impossible. We didn't do anything last time."

"You put up with me, though. Every time."

"Maybe."

Sindre doesn't protest when he moves closer, his head coming to rest on his shoulder and his arms wrapping around him. Although he has always hated the cologne he uses-too strong, clinging to everything he touches-it is nostalgic to breathe the familiar scent in.

"I love you." Magnus mumbles into his shirt, muffling the words in the material. It gives him an excuse to pretend that he didn't quite hear him.

They both fall into silence, one that seems to both stretch endlessly and move too quickly as time often does when waiting. A silence that he wishes would remain unbroken, preferable to the sounds of their own voices.

His thoughts, in the quiet, turn inwards. He plays with his own hair when he thinks, a nervous habit of his, but it is easier to run his fingers through Magnus's hair now. It strikes him, how silly it was. That it was the first thing that he noticed when he first met him. Not his face, nor his body, not even his voice. It was his hair, and the vague notion that he would like to touch it. His stupid hair, honestly, defying gravity with the aid of hair gel and good will. At least, that's what Magnus said, when Sindre had worked up enough courage to ask him about it.

Sindre tilts his head back to gaze up at the sky, the deep navy sky dimly lit with the faintest of stars, as the memories seem to rise up out of the night like smoke. Tangling his hands through his hair during rough nights in bed, with even rougher kisses and thrusts. Allowing him to lay his head on his lap, whether he was reading quietly or they were watching a movie, absentmindedly giving in to the feeling of it wrapped around his fingers. Washing it for him in showers that they shared, more often than not turning into more than just a shower.

"Thasnice…" _That's nice._ Magnus slurs out, barely audible, and Sindre untangles his hands, giving him an awkward pat on his back.

"We should go in now. It's late, and you're drunk." He would rather not bring him in, but he is too drunk and liable to pass out if he tried to drive him home. It had happened before, and struggling to get him to a bed in a dark, unfamiliar apartment was not something he wanted to repeat.

"Ahdonevndrnk-" _I don't even drink._

"Sure you don't. Get up."

He drawls out an _okay_ for far too long, but relents, letting go of him. He notices him take a small flask from his pocket, unscrewing the lid.

"Hey-" Sindre says, as he reaches to take it, but a surprisingly steady hand holds him back as Magnus drains it. His voice is more clear now, somehow steeled by vodka.

"There. Don't want to remember any of this tomorrow. Can't stand it."

"Idiot," He hisses out. It is usually an endearment that only they understood, and shared, but he means it this time. "Can you even walk now?"

"Sure I can." Magnus enjoys one last second of being able to stand up by himself, before the alcohol kicks in. He almost topples over when he tried to get up by himself.

Sindre leaves the empty flask on the dock, ready to be retrieved with the memories of this conversation in the morning. The close feel of Magnus's body against his is claustrophobic as he hitches his arm around his shoulders, stumbling with him up the dock, into the house and barely avoiding at least half a dozen falls on Magnus's part. Somehow, through many cuss words-from both of them- and much frustration, he manages to get him up the stairs and into his bed. He doesn't worry about removing his clothes, weary of any more innuendos thrown his way. He only bothers with his shoes.

"Get in with me."

Sindre doesn't answer. He will pass out soon. Once the blanket is thrown over Magnus, he seems to slips off into a deep sleep, saving him the pain of answering it.

With a glance at the clock on his nightstand, he sees that it is too early to get up for the day, yet too late to try to sleep. Besides, Magnus always wakes up at an ungodly hour, hangover or no hangover. He studies his face while he sleeps. The wild, untamed hair, mouth slightly open, face serene with only the sleep that passing out drunk can give you. He always looks younger when he sleeps. More innocent. It infuriates him and breaks his heart at the same time.

He doesn't understand why Magnus does this to himself. His life is balanced on a scale, dipping into the mindless act of self destruction when he can't live up to his own mind. Honestly, he thinks that Magnus cares too damn much, causing it to end up at the extreme. Destroying himself then giving all the shattered pieces away. It's why it hurts to see him like this. Unable to help him, when he knows he is a part of the issue.

He lies down next to him, above the blanket, and can only stare at the ceiling until the sun rises, thinking useless thoughts that won't change anything. Asking himself questions better reserved for the day, when he can actually do anything about them. If he can.

When the hour is decent enough to get up, he goes to the kitchen, already knowing what he should do. Brew coffee, first. See if he has anything decent to eat for a hangover.

Once it is brewed, he pours a cup of coffee, and dissolves a few aspirin tablets into a glass of water. He doesn't drink anything more than a glass of wine, if even that, but he always remembered what Magnus would do to ease his hangover, and it is what helps him with migraines.

He enters the room with no intent on being quiet, not caring if he wakes him. The cup and glass are placed on the nightstand beside the bed, clinking loudly.

"Good morning, sunshine." He says loudly as he opens the curtains with a whoosh, letting in more light than necessary, eliciting a groan from the figure lying on the bed who is already rubbing his eyes from the sudden light.

"Did ye' make any coffee?"

"Yes, but only for me. All gone." Sindre grins, a little cruelly but he enjoys teasing him.

"Too cruel, ice king. Too cruel. Make me some."

"Just kidding. It is on the table."

"Thank you," Magnus says as he eases himself up into a sitting position, draining the water glass in a few gulps then working on his coffee.

"If you will hurry, I might be nice enough to make breakfast before you leave."

He gives him a questioning look.

"Got somewhere to be?"

"Yes, but it's none of your business."

Magnus shrugs, as if he doesn't care; yet he can see the slump to his shoulders and the slight frown as he turns it over in his mind. Probably wondering if it is a date. If he has moved on. "That's true."

Sindre hates it when he acts wounded, whether he means it or not. He bites his lip, nervously, and sighs. He crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed, but not too close to him.

"If you must know, Eiríkur is coming over later."

"He still dislikes me that much?"

"He doesn't hate you, he just-" He stops when Magnus holds up a hand. It is obvious why his younger brother doesn't fully approve of him, even after all this time, and he can't truly blame him or accuse him of being petty. He does have a lot of problems.

"I know he does." Magnus shakes his head, weariness crossing it. "I don't blame him."

"Well, he used to like you better, when he was younger. Especially your made up fairy tales." When they were still living in the same house, together, and the drinking problem hadn't quite started yet. Not this house, but a smaller one, with more than a few memories etched into it. The one he grew up in. Inherited from his mom and step-father when the car crash took them away, along with a half-brother, barely a day over five and already an old soul. The way that Magnus stepped in to help, as soon as it happened, picking him up when he was shattered apart. Helped him raise him, even though Eiríkur never saw either of them as parents. It made it easier to cope, for both him and his brother. He did all the things a parent had to do, but at the end of the day, he could always be his brother. "It's just a part of growing up. He is in college now, remember? He doesn't like me anymore, half the time. And he's never gotten over what happened to them."

"Hell, anyone would still be stuck on that. Well, we can handle the rejection, can't we?" He winks at him, grinning. As soon as he doesn't get a reaction, it falls, his expression serious. "Can I ask you something?"

He looks at him, trying to avoid looking panicked, and nods. Magnus has had a bad habit of asking to marry him at the worst time possible.

"Did I say anything hurtful, last night? I can't remember."

"No." Sindre replies, a little too quickly for his own liking. Although it is a small lie, he has seen him act worse. "You never remember, do you?"

There is a flicker of disappointment. It is smoothed over, into his regular grin that refuses to reach his eyes. "Sometimes."

Sindre decides that now is a good time to change the subject, and he leaves the bed, retrieving a towel from the closet and tossing it to him.

"Take a shower, will you? It smells like a brewery in here."

"I feel like I drank the whole brewery. Head hurts."

"You sound like it, too." Sindre remarks dryly, unimpressed. "Make sure the water is hot. It helps with headaches. I'll make breakfast while you're in there."

But when he goes to do just that, he finds that he can't focus on the task. His mind asking him why he does this, demanding him to do something. His gaze takes in the gleaming surfaces, and nice furniture, material things that really don't mean anything to him. It is a nice home, by any judgment. And he wonders how it is possible, how much it testifies to human frailty, to be surrounded by luxury and still feel an aching loneliness in his chest for someone who is right here with him.

Even as the sounds flow in of him getting ready, he feels alone, knowing that he won't get to hear them once he leaves. The running water in the shower, the sound his clothes make when they are discarded onto the tile floor; normal sounds. Sounds that he doesn't get to hear often.

He wonders what it would be like. Ask him to stay. For one more time, give in. Wake up like this. Wake up to the sounds of a normal life, shared with someone else.

Someone who cares, in his own fucked up, beautiful way.

Of all his years, Magnus is the only one he has shared a bed with. He remembers the beginning. The way it had felt like this would last forever, the floating lightness that he felt when he was around him, like he had been filled up completely. He supposes that at one point it would have, and should have, made sense to marry him. To take all or none instead of this twisted dance of half-truths and hidden feelings that should see the light of day and the known feelings that should have never been unburied.

But it will be the same. Other times where he will be weak. Let him stay for a night that is too bitter, lusty and hot-blooded to be good for either one of them. Other times, where they argue and blame and break up for good, then just wait to see who will apologize first. Then the times that last, sometimes for a few days, or a few months, where everything seems like it will be okay, and those are the times that make it all worth it.

For now, it is this indefinable middle ground of all three.

But he can take it.

He finds his phone on the counter, where he had left it, and sends off a quick text to Eiríkur, canceling the visit and promising to make it up later. He swears that his brother is always glued to his electronics. His phone buzzes twice not a minute after he pressed send, but he ignores the double text. He will get over it.

Almost soundlessly. he goes to him. He doesn't speak, just pulls the curtain aside and steps in, his clothes be damned. Magnus can take them off for him.

From the way he slightly parts his lips, he can tell what he is about to ask him. What changed his mind. Why.

He shakes his head. They are pointless questions. "Shh."

He likes the way his mouth curls up at the corner, and the questioning look that he gives him in response. The warmth from the water, already soaking him through. He brushes his damp hair back from where it has fallen over his eyes. The way he can feel his heartbeat speed up when he presses against his chest, the small noise he makes when he kisses him gently, then greedily. His familiar hands already roaming over his body, eager to remove the clothing that separates them.

When they're done, he will stay, for now. He will make him laugh. He will make him happy, grateful; emotions that he can't often find when he is alone. He will stay for dinner, maybe the night. Keep working through each maybe, one day at a time. No matter how hard it is at first, until it is easy for them, and they're both sane enough to not question it.

Until then, all that matters is now, the feeling of his mouth kissing down his neck in the slow, gentle way that he likes, and the realization that they don't have to rush for anyone. His lips form the words that Magnus needs to hear, that he needs to hear, to get through this.

 _I love you, Magnus._

 _More than you will ever know._


	2. Promise?

It intrigued him, how forgetting is so easy; just a small flick of the mind and even the small things that seem so wonderfully big and unforgettable in the present can fade away into obscure meaninglessness in the wake of anger and distrust.

Sindre had almost forgotten how sweet it was to hear _beautiful_ whispered into his neck by the mouth of another, the feeling of another body in bed with him, along with all the soothing white noise that another presence can be.

Even in the early hours of the morning, when they had just both woken up and started getting ready-Magnus, for work, but it was just another morning for him, it turned out that writing was a good choice for him, after all-it still sent a rush of electricity through him whenever he felt his breath on his neck, the weight of the word brush against his skin.

Above all, Magnus thrived on touch, and he spent every minute possible on it. It didn't even have to be sexual; just being next to him seemed to satisfy him, hand in hand, sitting together, or reading in bed. Of course, it could get annoying, but it was mostly pleasant, and a welcome distraction.

Magnus seemed to be trying to make it up, in this strange sort of truce. Although Sindre knew that he hadn't really started trying to quit yet, but he had enough decency to ignore any alcohol on his breath, so long as he didn't get plastered, and Magnus had enough decency to not drink in front of him, always going out onto the porch to do it. Sindre felt slightly guilty, when the weather started growing colder, and he had to bundle up as a chilliness possessed the air. But when he asked him to come in, Magnus told him that he liked the view, and the fresh air, so what more was there to say?

But a truce is a double-edged blade. It is why they are both terrified of actually moving forward, fearful that the next step will be the one to finally send them plummeting over the edge, into something unfixable. Where their words and actions can't be taken back or kissed away. Or drag them back into the vicious cycle of trying, failing, and against all reason, trying again.

There is the nagging feeling, one he tries to ignore, that he shouldn't push this. As if the simple thought is enough to doom it. But it can't be like every other time, where they would be brought back together by loneliness, or regret. Where they made up with false promises and hope and nothing lasting. Only to break it again at will. And damn if he isn't going to cling on to him. To this.

It should be easy, he knows. With how long they've been together, all they've been through. But it isn't easy, not at all, and he doesn't know _why_. Even as he watches him tend to his own morning ritual, it hurts, that he doesn't know what to say. If there even is anything that he can say to bring him back from the edge.

It takes him a few minutes to find enough courage to bring it up. It would be temptingly simple to just leave it at the usual morning talk. Save the important words for another day, because it has been like this for so long that any memories of before, when he didn't drink that much and things were still okay, are too far gone and dusty from disuse to remember how good that was. Yet simplicity is often deceptive, and he knows that he might never say the words if he doesn't say them now.

"Well, what do we do now?"

Magnus glances over, his gaze uncomfortable and a new tenseness present in his shoulders, and he is reminded of how difficult it is to talk about anything important-truly important-with him when he's sober.

"What do ya mean?"

"About us. Whatever this is." Sindre says, gesturing to the air

Sighing heavily, Magnus leans back against the counter.

"Don't know what to do." He even shrugs, as if dismissing the thought.

"We should talk."

A grimace twists his mouth, and his hand goes up to rub the back of his neck. "Can we talk later?"

Sindre understands why he is reluctant to talk. He has lived with him for too long, to not understand that he's afraid of messing it up, or saying the wrong thing. Terrified that this is his last chance. But it is necessary, unpleasant as it is.

"Magnus. Please."

"Later, okay?"

Sindre sighs, frustrated. "Maybe this is why it never worked the other times. We never talk."

"Sorry. Just say what you need." Magnus manages to say with a tight grin, although the look in his eyes has softened, as he pulls the chair out opposite and sits down. He starts drumming his fingers on the table, and Sindre resists the urge to say anything. It would not be a good idea when he is acting agitated, like an animal pacing its cage. Emotions had always been his weakness.

Instead, Sindre knows that he needs something to do with his hands, so he won't get defensive. Without a word, he gets up, fills two mugs with coffee and brings them back. Just a distraction. It works, though. He stops with the rapping, wrapping his hands around it.

Sindre starts to speak, then pauses, his unsorted thoughts competing to get out but in no cohesive way. To his credit, Magnus waits patiently, giving him time to think.

"For one thing, the drinking needs to go." Sindre watches him, waiting for his reaction. "At least cut it down."

"Yeah." He doesn't even look at him, his focus still fixed onto the surface of the table, and it is more than a little irritating.

"Magnus. I am serious about this and you need to be too."

"I am, okay?" Magnus says too loudly as he looks up. He drops his voice down to a whisper when he realizes his mistake. "It's just hard when I feel like I only disappoint you."

Sindre reaches for his hand, twining their fingers together and lightly skimming his thumb over his skin.

"Listen to me. The way you act at times, disappoints me. The things you do disappoint me. But I still love you. Understand?"

Magnus nods, uncharacteristically quiet, and Sindre adds, softly; "I don't expect you to be perfect, if that's what you think."

"I know, I know. But I don't even come close. You deserve better."

"Do you really believe that it matters? I've put up with you for this long. You may be an idiot, but you're my idiot, at that." He does deserve better, but it is a thought that doesn't mean much to him. He would rather have Magnus at his 'better', ill-defined as it is, than anyone else.

A familiar grin, one he loves, lights up Magnus's face, and he is glad that he brought him, at least a little, out of his mood and back to himself.

"Damn right, I am." But then he sighs, a heavy sound.

"What even are we? Y'know, it bothers me. Can't call you my boyfriend when we aren't together every other week, it feels like. Can't call you my husband, for sure." He gives him a pointed look at the word husband, and Sindre draws his hand away, a small frown playing across his mouth.

"I don't know." Sindre admits, although it bothers him, too. He misses it. When he could just call him his lover, boyfriend, and best friend with ease, although the last one is the one he still finds easiest to say. If only they could get back to that point, where it was easy to say those words without his mind begging him to consider if they are even true anymore. "But I know that I want this to last. I want to be with you, and not wonder how long this time will last."

"Before we both fuck it up?"

"Yes."

"Do you think we really can, this time? Hell, we keep trying and trying, and it feels like we get nowhere. Can we go back to how it was before?"

Sindre remains silent for a moment, pondering. "I hope so. Just… Not the exact same."

Magnus, seemingly ready to leave it that, changes the subject, to one that Sindre isn't quite ready to approach yet.

"Have you talked to Eírikur yet?"

Sindre rolls his eyes. "Of course not. I want to be sure before I tell him."

"About me?"

Sindre shakes his head. _No, not you._

Magnus raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee.

Sindre relents, finally answering. "If this will even last."

"Come on, Sindre. Have some faith."

Now it's his turn to give him a pointed look. "You, of all people, should be able to understand why I can't."

"I know that I've fucked up a lot of things, haven't I?"

Sindre nods in agreement, knowing that he is foolish, honestly judging by the pull those words have on his heart. Yet it still feels right to get up, and take his rightful place on his lap. If he has to be a fool, he might as well be a happy one. It feels even better to take his face in his hands, and kiss up his jaw, ignoring the scratch of his stubble with Magnus naturally wrapping an arm around him for support.

"You should have shaved."

"Well, I might have remembered to, if you hadn't kept me up so late with your needs-"

"Inappropriate. And that's not how I remember it happening, by the way."

Sindre's facing him, so he almost groans when the clock on the wall behind him catches his eye and he recognizes what time it is. They had talked for longer than he had thought.

"Time for you to go, before you're late."

"Already? Ugh. But first…"

"Wait, don't you dare, put me down-"

Sindre stifles a laugh when Magnus stands up with him in his arms, though he curses him when he almost smacks his head on a low-hanging light-Magnus forgets how tall he is, sometimes-finally clumsily plunking him down on the counter. Sindre reminds himself that it's the thought that counts, and he does appreciate the spontaneity, poorly executed as it can be.

And Magnus more than makes up for it in deep, tender kisses, after he braces both arms on the counter. He finally breaks apart for air.

"Okay, now I can leave."

"Good riddance," Sindre remarks, but he leans back in for more one kiss with a small smile, before Magnus really does have to leave. "Text me when you're on your way home, okay?"

Sindre feels a hand squeeze his, a promise that yes, he will come straight home. No bars. Nothing else.

As soon as the front door shuts, the sound melts back into comfortable silence, one that he is used to, and he is left to watch through the kitchen window as his car starts, driving down the long road before disappearing around a bend and out of his view.


End file.
